


Average Omens

by yonderdarling



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Apocalypse, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of River Song." A Doctor Who - Good Omens fusion. Shamelessly ripped from the Narrative of Certain Events, Good Omens, by (Sir) Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. IN THE BEGINNING

**Author's Note:**

> You start out working on something for shits and giggles and it turns into a monster. Honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You start working on something for shits and giggles and it turns into a monster. I mean, really.

*** * ***

**IN THE BEGINNING**

*** * ***

It was, all in all and apart from the snakes and naked people running about, a nice day. All of the days had been nice - test subjects needed optimal conditions, this early in the experiment. There had been rather more than seven days so far, and rain was just about to be introduced. The meteorology brigade had outdone itself, perhaps dangerously so. The first thunderstorm was on its way. The clouds massing east of experimental garden Earth-Delta-Echo (Nu) suggesting it was going to be a big one. Fat drops began to fall from the sky, shockingly cold and fresh and pure.

A junior assistant in the biochemistry lab was doing guard duty on the Eastern Gate for misplacing part of his uniform. He held an umbrella over himself and his companion.

"Well," said his friend, wearing a red and orange tunic and trousers. "That one went down like a lead balloon."

"Kosch, what in the Six Hells have you done?" said the Guard.

"Get off me, Thete," said the one called Koschei. He was thinking about changing it. Koschei, he decided, was just not him.

"No - the humans. They've gotten out of containment," said Theta, a head taller than Koschei, in a similarly coloured outfit. His limbs matched his height - unlike his friend who was short and stout, Theta was tall and gangled. He continued, running his hand up and down his lapel, as he was wont to do when he was nervous. "They somehow knew - they somehow knew to take their knowledge inhibitors off. Half the women are expecting now, and they've started naming all the other experiments. I mean, who calls it a kookaburra? It wasn't meant to happen like this."

"It's not _meant_ to happen any old how," said Koschei. "It's like how we've always discussed, how you've always said. The Time Lords don't always need to guide life. Life can just happen. This planet would have evolved in its own time, done its own thing, it's not up to us to decide humans would become the dominant species. I mean, they were meant to start off as apes, as if they could evolve to something so close to our form."

"Koschei. The Time Lords. They're angry. They're coming for you."

"Yeah, but I have a funny feeling they're not just coming for me." Koschei smirked at his friend, who balked.

"I don't know what you mean," said Theta, who was now also thinking about changing his name, mostly because there'd be a hell of a price on his head in about ten minutes.

"We don't give the test subjects access to fire or fire-making abilities," said Koschei. "Not on this planet anyway. So why can I see flames through the trees?"

"It's cold, Kosch. It's going to rain, and it never has here before. And they're so - fragile. They're scared. They've never been out of the reserve before."

"So I gave them knowledge and freedom, you gave them matches."

"I'm not planning on getting pinned with your sins, Kosch. The humans will die without the fire, and you know it."

"I gave them freedom and knowledge, you gave them survival? That'll be a good way to phrase this if it comes to trial."

"I won't get taken to trial. I was just doing what I could to protect the test subjects you've since ruined," Theta said. "There's a precedent for that, the Ushas Trial."

The two Time Lords looked out across at the dark clouds massing over experimental garden EDEN. Soon the drops would bruise the flowers carefully grown in Gallifrey's terraforming labs, scatter the surface of the pure water supplies, soak into the carefully formulated soil. Koschei had had a hand in that; Theta had been more about building the human's brain chemistry.

Koschei shoved his hands in the pockets of his red and orange tunic, shrugged. He nudged Theta with his elbow.

"Still, awkward. Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If it turns out I did the good thing and you did the bad one?"

"Not really," said Theta.

A foreign object appeared in the sky; a white round sphere that glistened and glowed even as the rain came down harder, soaking the two young Time Lords.

"Well, I've still got the vortex manipulator," said Koschei. "Shame neither of us have access to a TARDIS."

"Are you going to run, Kosch?" Theta asked.

"Are you going to stop me?"

 

* * *

  *** * ***

**AVERAGE OMENS**

*** * ***

A Narrative of Certain Events occurring in the last eleven years of human history, in strict accordance as shall be shewn with: _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of River Song_. Shamelessly ripped from the Narrative of Certain Events, _Good Omens_ , by (Sir) Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

 * * * 

**DRAMATIS PERSONAE**

**EXTRATERRESTRIAL BEINGS**

**Time Gentry and Gallifreyans**

**The Doctor** , currently in Twelfth Form (Formerly known as Theta Sigma of the House of Lungbarrow, formerly known as [REDACTED] the Watcher for Earth [INDEFINITE MISSION STATEMENT], twice divorced, bit of a Javert. Part-time rare book dealer. Likes museums.)

 **The Mistress** , currently in [UNKNOWN] Form (Formerly known as Koschei of the House of Oakdown, formerly known as the Master, formerly known as the War Chief. Notorious Gallifreyan renegade, wanted on seven planets, wanted by the Time Lords for the collapse of Earth Experiment EDEN. Bit of a Valjean, only not really. Currently known to be allied to the DALEKS. Likes cats.)

 **Lord Rassillon** , currently in [UNKNOWN] Form (President of all Gallifrey, Commander in Chief of the Time Lord Armies, Honorary Head of the Gallifreyan Security Brigade, bit of a dick.)

 **Lady Romanadvoratrelundovar** , currently in Fourth Form (Of the House of Willowstream, Head of the Gallifreyan Outer-Reaches Security Brigade, mover and shaker. Likes dogs.)

 

**Daleks**

**Dalek Hastur** (EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE etc etc; the Brains of the Operation.)

 **Dalek Ligur** (EXTERMINATE and so forth; the Brawn of the Operation.)

 

_And numerous other Time Gentry, Daleks and non-Earth based Beings._

 

**TERRESTRIAL BEINGS**

**Humans, Or Close Enough**

**Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Smith** (A Witchfinder)

 **River Song** (A Kind of Prophetess, a Fun Type of Gal)

 **Amy Pond** (The Mother of a Kind Of Prophetess)

 **Rory Williams** (The Father of a Kind Of Prophetess)

 

 **Martha Jones** (Doctor, Witch [not a witch-doctor], Professional Descendant)

 **Mickey Smith** (Carpet Layer, Witchfinder [part-time])

 **The Captain** , aka **Jack Harkness** (painted Jezebel [mornings only, Thursdays by arrangement] and Medium)

 **Donna Noble** (Witchfinder Captain, best temp in Chiswick)

 **Wilfred Mott** (Witchfinder Sergeant)

 **Sister Mary Davrossa** (A Nun of the Chattering Order of the Blessed Kaled, scatterbrain)

 **Mr Oswald** (A Father)

 **Mrs Oswald**  (A Mother)

 **Harriet Dowling** (A Wife of a Cultural Attache and it's just Not True what they say about her)

Warlock (A Boy, Not the Antichrist)

 

 **Clara Oswald** (A Girl and, For Lack of a Better Term, The Antichrist)

 **Peri** (A Girl, Not the Antichrist)

 **Courtney** (A Girl, Not the Antichrist)

 **Danny** (A Boy, Not the Antichrist)

 

_And numerous other humans and Earth-based beings._

 

**ROBOTS**

**K9** (Dalek sort-of-hound, professional cat-worrier)

 

* * *

*** * ***

**ELEVEN YEARS AGO**

*** * ***

Current theories on the creation of the universe state that, if it were created at all and didn't just start like some kind of weirdo who arrives at a party unannounced and uninvited, it came into being between ten and twenty thousand million years ago. By the same token the earth itself is a wee bairn, generally supposed to be about four and half thousand million years old.

These dates are incorrect.

Medieval Jews feel Creation occurred at around 3760BC; Greek Orthodox Theologians put it at 5508BC. Some Americans, being Americans, feel it began on the 4th of July, 1776. These groups are also incorrect.

In his Annales Veteris et Novi Testamenti, Usher (not that Usher) put it at 4004 BC - one of his aides, presumably angling for a promotion, took the calculation further and declared that the Earth was created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004BC, at precisely 9AM, because God liked to get his work done while he was feeling fresh.

This is incorrect, depending on whether you apply Earth Standard Time or Gallifreyan Relative Time. Either way, the clock didn't exist on Earth so what, truly, was the point? Time is time is time; it ticks by whether you're measuring it or not. In a manner of speaking.

Usher's aide was off by about a quarter of an hour, and an eternity, and eight hundred years. The Time Lords may not have created the universe, nor the planet but they certainly had a hand in creating and cultivating Earth _itself_. The planet was there; the potential for life was there. All they needed was a terraforming project. And in the case of terraforming project EDEN, the Time Lords started at 8.45am, 3213 years ago, when the planet itself was 800. Time Lords like to be early.

The whole business with the fossilised dinosaurs is a failed experiment that proves one should recycle rather than dump when disposing of rubbish. Oil and coal don't count.

This all tells us two things.

First things first, Time Lords are dicks. They are dicks for two reasons, and that is a subclause and a subsection of this first fact.

_**Fact 1**. Time Lords are dicks._

Addendum to fact 1, part A. Their dickishness may be because they appear to work in mysterious ways. Usually because you don't know this, but in order to ensure that in 10,000 years a certain person reaches a certain town on a certain planet, your granddad might just have to lose a toe in the Korean war.

Addendum to fact 1, part B. Sometimes, Time Lords really are just dicks, but appear to work in mysterious ways.

They like to think they play an ineffable game of their own devising, but really, it's not fair if the other players don't even know they're on the board, don't know the rules and yet still think the dealer (if, according to some players, there is a dealer) is looking out for their best interests.

_**Fact 2.** The Earth is a Libra._

This means, according to tumblr, if the Earth was a character in a heist movie, they would be The Distraction. Libra's underappreciated Shakespeare line is from Hamlet -"We know what we are, but know not what we may be." The Doctor met Shakespeare. He thought he was a bit of a prat. Sylvia Plath apparently said of Libras, "Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen."

Perhaps key to this story is Libra as an AO3 tag: #I have no idea what I'm doing oh god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and feedback are always appreciated/reread fifteen times/printed out and framed and hung on the wall.


	2. Eleven Years Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the baby swapping and godparents and eleven year old kids running around.

**STILL ELEVEN YEARS AGO**

*** * ***

In a nice albeit overpriced cafe in London, the Doctor looked up from his devilled egg. He blinked, and then half-smiled.

"That's new," he said, looking his old friend up and down. "Are you swapping your pronouns as well? Humans get so strange when they don't match these days."

"Might as well," said the Master, and twirled. "I was thinking the Mistress."

"I'm not calling you Mistress," said the Doctor, taking a sip of wine. "I'd settle for Koschei, that could be passable now. Just say your parents lived in a hippy commune when they named you."

"I'd be called Pippin Galadriel Moonchild or Cox Celeborn Sunbabe or something if that were the case. What about Missy? Missy? Missy," said Missy, thinking it good, and she sat down. "Aren't you going to ask?"

"Well you're obviously going to tell me," the Doctor said. He took a sip of his red wine. "Hm."

"It's 10AM."

"It's 10AM in London. Come on, out with it," the Doctor said.

"Time Lord rookie guard. Shot without asking questions, very un-Gallifreyan of her. On Mars. Standards must be slipping."

"You've gone back up the enemies list. I meant to tell you, but clearly you weren't about," said the Doctor. "Inside the Grubby 24."

"Why are they called the Grubby 24? That's actually a terrible saying, and I've been watching something called Big Brother."

"Dirty Dozen, Grubby 24."

"At least we're not the Grubby 24 of Rassillon, I guess," said Missy. "Have you ordered for me?"

"I got you some cakes, they'll bring them out when they see you're sitting down. And what's brought you back to England?"

"Just felt like seeing the sights," Missy lied. "How're the Time Lords?"

"As to be expected. Still letting Earth be, for now."

The waitress came by, put a platter of small cakes in front of Missy and also deposited a pot of tea.

"Anything else?" she asked, but Missy shook her head, gave the waitress her unopened menu and waved her off. "Right. Do you have any plans for today?"

"I was going to close the shop early after a long lunch," said the Doctor. "And I've got to write up my quarterly report for the Police Chief, but that can wait. They revamped the exhibit on the Assyrians at the British Museum."

"I loved the Assyrians," Missy said thoughtfully. "You don't get wine like they used to make."

The Doctor reached over and took one of her cupcakes. "You can tag along."

"It's a date," said Missy, and took a bite of Angel Food cake. "You still got that rust-bucket TARDIS? Or I've got the Bentley."

"We can walk, Missy, it's the British Museum. And it's not working, you know that."

Missy nodded. "Fine."

 

* * *

 

 

 

Many phenomena - wars, plagues, sudden audits, speedos - have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan on Earth. In many cases, known only to the Doctor and theorised by select other Time Lords, they are actually evidence of the Master's presence on Earth.

The M25 is the most compelling piece of evidence regarding this. Gallifreyan, the language of the Time Lords is as complex as the evolution of the human eye (if human eyes had evolved, and not been intelligently designed by the Lady Chronotis in the Senses and Development Department) or perhaps the tongue of the catfish. A single symbol in the Gallifreyan language can stand for something as simple as "a star" or as complex as "This is the Great Big Fuck-You of Rassillon."

Coincidentally, the latter symbol is the exact shape of the M25. It was one of Missy's better achievements. It had taken years to achieve, involved two computer hacks, three break-ins, several minor briberies (why do something yourself when you could pay for someone else to) and on one wet night when all else had failed, a squelchy hour with the Doctor shifting several marker pegs a few but grammatically significant metres.

When Missy had watched the first thirty-mile tailback and known what was being beamed up to the Time Lords, she'd experienced the lovely warm feeling of a bad job well done.

It had meant the bounty on her head increased three-fold and the Doctor's tenure on Earth, hunting her, had been increased indefinitely. It had been increased indefinitely fifteen times over the past 4000 years, led to the collapse of two marriages and him allotting an impressive amount of back-pay.

 

* * *

 

 

Missy was currently doing 110mph somewhere east of Slough, whatever Slough was. Nothing about her looked particularly evil unless you knew a lot about recent Earth media. Admittedly, she was also listening to a Best of Queen album. No conclusions should be drawn from this as for some reason all tapes, CDs and mp3s played in her car tended to turn into Best of Queen compilations after a fortnight. It was a mystery for the ages. Missy didn't mind so much.

Missy had dark hair, and good cheekbones, and she could do really weird things with her tongue. This was a talent that had persisted over almost all of her bodies. It was one of the top ten reasons the Doctor hadn't handed her over to Gallifrey when he'd been angry with her.

The car she was driving was a black 1926 Bentley, one owner from new, and that owner was Missy. She looked after it. Whatever issues she took with humanity (and there were a lot of those) they did know how to design a vehicle. She tended to store it in Cornwall when she wasn't on the planet; the addition of a perception filter meant she didn't need to worry about a car alarm, or even locking it. She'd driven it around the British Isles until she'd run out of road, sped through France and took her favourite route from Germany to Poland in that car. It was a fine thing to drive.

Another fact about Missy: She was enjoying the 21st century immensely. It was much better than the seventeenth and immensely better than the fourteenth, the most boring century since the damn planet was created. Hell, Gallifrey would have been more interesting and their centuries were twice as long and three times as slow.

Missy checked her watch. She was running late.

It was not a dark and stormy night, because narrative convenience doesn't always strike when it's well, convenient. It was foggy, a bit drizzly and generally miserable. It was quite British. It didn't mean dark forces weren't abroad, or about - it's their job to be everywhere.

As with every park after dark in Great Britain, two figures with nefarious plans stood behind two bushes. They didn't quite lurk, they more loomed. They were not of this world, lacked subtlety and kind of looked like pepper-pots had joined a gang-bang with R2-D2.

They stood, and stood for an hour, waiting and watching, their evil plan ever strong. They stood for another hour. The wind grew colder, the drizzle became more of a shower. After another twenty minutes, one turned to the other, and said,

"BUGGER THIS FOR A LARK. HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE HOURS AGO."

The speaker's name was Dalek Hastur. If the Daleks had ranks, he would have been equivalent to a Duke.

"HALT," said his companion, who was Dalek Ligur. "I SEE A LIGHT."

Dalek Hastur looked. "YES. HERE HE COMES NOW, THE FLASH BASTARD."

"WHY DOES THE TIME LORD HAVE FOUR WHEELS?"

"IT IS A CAR SIMILAR TO A HORSELESS CARRIAGE OR THE CREATOR'S CHAIR THOUGH WE WOULD NEVER SEE A TIME LORD IN THE CREATOR'S CHAIR. ALL HAIL DAVROS, CREATOR OF THE DALEKS."

"I SEE," said Dalek Ligur, who didn't. "YES. INDEED. ALL HAIL DAVROS. PRAISE BE TO THE CREATOR."

They watched the slight figure approach through the fog.

"ALL HAIL DAVROS," announced Dalek Hastur.

"ALL HAIL THE CREATOR," said Dalek Ligur.

"Heya," said Missy, giving them a wave. "Sorry I'm late, but you know how it is on the A40 up at Denham, and then I tried to cut up towards Chorley-"

"NOW WE ARE HERE. WE MUST PROCEED. WE MUST PROCEED WITH THE PLAN."

"Chill your beans, tinpot," said Missy. "What plan? You actually want to direct me to do something with Earth, as opposed to pointing me at a random planet and saying, 'go, there's stairs and we can't do this without opposable thumbs?'"

"YOU WILL SHOW RESPECT TO THE DALEKS."

"RESPECT TO THE DALEKS." Dalek Ligur repeated.

Missy waited.

"THE DALEKS SAVED YOU FROM RUIN. THE DALEKS SAVED YOU FROM EXECUTION BY THE TIME LORDS. YOU ARE A VALUED ASSET, BUT YOU ARE NOT OUR ONLY ASSET. YOU ARE EXPENDABLE."

Missy counted backwards from ten, thought fondly of the time she'd invented Welsh-language television.

"Anyway," she said, when the Dalek's eye stalks had stopped wiggling and flashing. "Things sure haven't changed since I saw you last. That's what I like about Daleks. Dependable. So, what's up?"

One of the Dalek's enslaved humans popped out from the bushes, holding a basket. He handed it to Missy. She looked inside and recoiled.

"Oh," she said, her heartsrate going through the roof. "Really. This is a new one."

"IT IS THE NEW ONE. IT IS ALSO, THE FINAL ONE." Dalek Hastur declared.

"And why me?" asked Missy, taking the basket reluctantly. "I'm not exactly. Paternal. Maternal. Ah, ternal."

"YOU CLAIM TO NOT BE PARENTAL. THIS IS NOT AN ISSUE."

"BECAUSE OF YOUR OPPOSABLE THUMBS. YOU'VE EARNED IT." Dalek Ligur's eyestalk moved up and down her body, and circuits whirred. "TIME LADY."

"TAKE THE CHILD, TIME LADY. YOU WILL DELIVER THE CHILD TO THE ADDRESS WRITTEN WITHIN. TO THE FAMILY WRITTEN THEREON. GO NOW."

Missy gulped, took the basket and headed back to the car. She dumped it on the back-seat, squinted at the address for a few minutes. Sped off, thumped the wheel.

Oh shit, shit shit, shit, fuck. Everything had been going so well. She'd avoided the Time Lords for millennia, the Daleks hadn't tried killing her in decades and hadn't succeeded in killing her in centuries; she'd booked tickets with the Doctor to see _Wicked_ the following week. But now.

The Daleks would take out Earth - which was very inconvenient for her, because there were relatively few other planets where she could blend in, and it would just upset the Doctor - and bring the Time Lords down on their heads. This was going to be it. Three rounds, weird collars versus pepperpots, one fall, submission. And the end of all things.

The baby gurgled in the back.

At least it wouldn't be this year. She had some plans she wished to enact, still, things that had been in the pipeline, stocks to sell. For a second she considered losing control of the wheel, plunging the car into a tree - she'd regenerate, but then It, the thing in the back - no.

They'd just make a new one. And that'd bring the Daleks round earlier, with a much more keen interest in seeing just how many times a Time Lady could regenerate.

Missy let herself reminisce for a few awful seconds. She'd been a proper Time Lord once, a rule follower. Dull, pedestrian. She'd been engaged to that guy who'd been weird about dogs. She hadn't meant to become a renegade; she'd just hung around with the wrong people.

Person.

Theta.

And who was she kidding, this was a much better life than sitting around on Gallifrey playing backgammon. Or whatever that game was they all liked. 

Paternal, maternal - oh, parental. _Parental_.

 

Missy sped on through the night, towards the hospital. It was a Dalek-run one, which meant it was actually incredibly efficient compared to most in the UK. Still. It gave her the willies. Our Lady of the Sainted Kaled. So subtle was the deceit, the Time Lords and their Watcher had been yet to catch it. 

Missy had helped set it up. Make up a nice fake Saint a few hundred years ago; fast forward and you have a hospital and charity network completely loyal to your cause. Unquestioning.

Unfortunately, very chatty people, nuns. It was a problem she'd never quite been able to work out.

 

* * *

 

There's a game with one pea and three cups that the had Doctor sometimes played with his kids, on the rare occasion he was allowed to go back to Gallifrey. Something similar to that is about to take place. Missy handed the baby - herein referred to as Baby A-is-for-Armageddon - to Sister Mary Davrossa, of the Chattering Order of Kaled. In Delivery Room 3, Mrs Oswald has just finished giving birth to a child we shall refer to as Baby C-is-for-Colossal-Fuck-Up. In Delivery Room 4, Harriet Dowling, the wife of the American Cultural Attache has just given birth to Baby U-S-A.

" _Now kids,_ " the Doctor would say, and his face would split into a grin as his children's brows furrowed in concentration. " _Round and round and round they go_ …"

"So he's gotta go to like, the wife of the American Cultural Attache's room, yeah? Cause this is the baby she really wants, right?" asked Sister Mary Davrossa. She had a face, wore a habit. Missy didn't have much time for humans. "This is the Chosen Baby as prophesized by the Lord Master to Saint Kaled in the olden days?"

You got a lower quality of nuns these days. It was probably to do with the end of the Cold War, or the rise of feminism and the welfare state. Or something. Missy had alway been against those things though her perspective on feminism had very recently changed.

"Yep," said Missy, deciding not to deal with the fact a nun in the maternity ward was chewing gum. "Take care of. That."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

Missy - as with all Time Lords and Ladies - didn't give a flying fuck. "Little early to start imposing roles, isn't it?" she asked, and while the nurse looked confused, she handed her the bundle.

In the grand tradition of herself, she scarpered. On the way out she bumped shoulders with a man in an ugly cardigan with a battered pack of cigars.

"Move!" she called over her shoulder.

The man simply shrugged. Doctors, hey? Working all the hours God sent.

Sister Mary took Baby A-is-for-Armageddon and found him a bassinet, checked the squiggly writing on the note. The Daleks had never quite gotten the hang of writing on Earth, mostly due to their lack of opposable thumbs. Missy, despite her opposable thumbs and highly dexterous fingers (another talent that had persisted over regenerations) was similarly useless. Sister Mary looked down at the baby, which looked relatively normal, with wispy brown hair and big brown, deer-like eyes. Inside the baby was the potential power to destroy the entire planet twice over.

Over the time it took the child to grow to eleven, an internal scanner would become linked with every atom on the planet. It took eleven years because it took eleven years. Dalek attempts to make it a round decade or a more narratively pleasing Bakers Dozen had resulted in the evisceration of multiple engineers on one end and the destruction of Skaro's moon at the other. The Time Lords'd had a good laugh over that.

It had been the first time they'd laughed in about four hundred and twelve years. Time Lords as a rule don't get out much.

"What a cutie," said Sister Mary, and poked at the baby's belly button. It was an outie. The baby excreted some kind of fluid out of an orifice, but that was okay. Babies tend to do that.

"The Delivery Suite is empty, Sister. The father is absent, and the mother sleeps," said another Dalek-worshipping nun, Sister Marie of Davrosette, and left the door open.

Sister Mary wheeled the bassinet down to delivery room three, where Mrs Oswald had finished giving birth and was snoozing away, smiling in her sleep because it was a difficult job well done. There was also a baby, similarly cute and chubby with a thatch of thick dark hair and big doe eyes. Sister Mary dutifully duplicated the little wristband and popped it on Baby A-is-for-Armageddon.

Mr Oswald returned, smelling faintly of coffee and cigars. He stopped. "Twins? No one said anything about twins."

"No, no no," said Sister Mary. "I'm just looking after this one for someone," she pointed at his biological child. "This one," she said, pointing at a piece of human-Dalek hybrid technology that outstripped anything within the realms of human imagination and ability and could fool the single most advanced race in the known Universe. "She's yours. Do you have a name?"

"Ah," said Mr Oswald. "We were thinking Adam, if it were a boy. Not sure about a girl."

Sister Mary shrugged. "I always liked Shireen, I did." She then remembered she was a nun, and who she worked for. "Melissa, for a girl, is nice. Or Davrossa?"

Mr Oswald gave her a funny look.

"…Clara?" she suggested.

Mr Oswald picked up Baby-A-is-for-Armaggedon. "Huh," he said. "She kind of looks like a Clara."

" _Where they stop, nobody knows._ "

Sister Marie Davrosette entered with a light tap on the door. "Have you-" she began, then saw Mr Oswald holding Baby-A-is-for-Armaggedon. She settled for pointing at the alternative baby and winking. Sister Mary settled for winking back. Sister Marie fully entered and wheeled the bassinet containing Baby C-is-for-Colossal-Fuck-Up out of the room.

Perhaps this all could have been avoided if the nuns had studied Venusian, which was a language entirely made of eyebrow movements and eyelid flickers. In this case, in Venusian Sister Marie's wink had meant, "BEES BEES TERRIBLE BEES," and Sister Mary's replying wink had meant "Porridge."

What Sister Marie had wished to convey was, "Ah, I see you have already lined up the babies for the switch, now indicate to me the correct child and I shall deliver it to the apropos room." Thus, she had interpreted Sister Mary's point and wink as "Yes, this is Baby-A-is-for-Armageddon but we cannot speak aloud as there is this interloper."

What Sister Mary had assumed Sister Marie's wink meant was, "Ah, excellent Sister, you have switched the babies all on your own. Now indicate to me the superfluous child and I shall deal with it accordingly." And so her own point and wink meant, "Get rid of this one."

" _Are you sure this is the right one, kiddo? Do you want to change your answer?_ "

Sister Marie wheeled Baby C-is-for-Colossal-Fuck-Up out of the room and swapped it quickly with Baby U-S-A. She spirited Baby U-S-A away and the nuns had him discreetly adopted.

Probably. They did work for the Daleks.

Missy had always hated that fucking cup game.

 

* * *

 

 

Martha Jones was one of those children cursed to be incredibly practical and intelligent, which meant even at eight-and-a-bit, she had few friends. This was exacerbated by what she was reading, well past her bedtime, under the covers with a torch. Martha was a good reader for her age, but she wasn't leafing through Just Seventeen or Judy Blume or Jackie Wilson or even Joanne Rowling.Martha Jones was reading the Book.

Despite her intelligence and literacy, her spelling was appalling.

This was because Martha had learnt to read from the Book. It didn't have girl gangs or wizards in it, or yellow dogs called Spot. It did have a very nice eighteenth-century woodcut of River Song being burnt at the stake and looking rather amused about it. Martha's sister Tish had coloured in River's hair a nice yellow, but due to being four, Tish had also coloured River's face, the stake and most of the townspeople green. Mum had been really peeved about that.

The first word Martha had been able to recognise was 'nice.' Very few people, even precocious eight-year-olds know that nice also means 'scrupulously exact,' but Martha Jones, bane of her English teacher, was one of them.

The first sentence she ever read out loud was:

 

> _"I tell ye thif and I charge ye with my words. One sharl run, two have fled, and 4 sharl flaunt. Two sharl ride as twixt; There will be no stopping themme, not fish nor rayne, nor Lords nor Ladies nor Pots o Pepper. And ye sharl be there also, Martha."_

Martha liked to read about herself, but she didn't want to be there. Martha Jones wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to help people. But she'd always been told her duty was as a descendant, and "River Song burnt at the stake for this book, Martha. Do you want River to be burnt at the stake for nothing?"

" _No, mum_ , I don't want River Song to have been burnt at the stake for nothing."

Everyone in the Jones family and the Williams, Pond, Song, Tang and McSweeney families that had proceeded them - all lines tended to run heavily to girls - had been mentioned in the Book, up to and including Martha and Tish. Martha at eight-and-a-half was just a little too self-centred to have realised that no mention was made of her own potential children, or any events in the future past eleven years time. At eight though, eleven more years is a lifetime.

Martha had inherited her mother's eyes, her father's hands, and her great-great-great-great-great grandmother's latent psychic ability, which probably had more impact on her day-to-day life than the former two. She'd predicted her parent's divorce for one thing. That did weird stuff to a kid.

 

* * *

 

 

In a house on the Powell Estate, a light was on in a bedroom window.

Mickey Smith was twelve at this point, wearing a puffy red jacket and should have been in bed hours ago. He was currently trying to repair his remote controlled racing car after it had been crushed by the blonde girl from the flat a few stories down. She'd ridden over it on her new red bike.

Mickey was failing miserably but he was cursed to be a natural optimist.

Three crooked airplanes hung from the ceiling on strings; Mickey had made them all himself and was hopelessly proud, even though he'd really botched the wings on the Spitfire and was only seventy percent certain the Battle of Britain wasn't just a film. He adjusted his lamp, removed the last of the plastic shards from the bent workings of his car. He'd had high hopes, but there was something silvery and poisonous-looking oozing through the wires and it would probably be best if he went and got his mum and got her to look at it.

"Mickey Smith, get in bed!" was the reply to this request.

Mickey did so, grumbling. He'd be an inventor one day. Just watch.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor was still a Time Lord, but when you'd spent something like 80% of the last 4000-odd years living on Earth as basically a glorified police officer - he liked to think of himself as Inspector Javert without the obsessive tendencies and a better singing voice than Russell Crowe. His official job title was Watcher; less Giles, more of an Ambassador-come-World-Weary-Policeman-Who's-Seen-It-All-And-Is-Too-Old-For-This-Shit. You couldn't call yourself a Time Lord when you lived in Soho and tended to get about in stretched out cardigans and Doc Martens, unless you were a very special kind of nobility.

It was because he'd spent the past 3211 years hanging about on Earth in case the fugitive formerly known as the Master decided to show up, that he and the Mistress had come to their Arrangement. On the whole, the Doctor would claim (in front of a Tribunal, about 3212 years previously) that he would not willingly choose the Mistress's company. At that point in time, it had been true - Theta had been beyond pissed at Koschei, no matter how much he'd privately agreed with Kosch's actions - but after 3200 years away from home both beings had become accustomed (even attached) to the only familiar face they saw on the regular. Well. The faces changed. The person behind the face didn't.

The Arrangement was very simple - so much so it probably didn't deserve to be a proper noun. It was just the sort of sensible arrangement that two old friends, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach when they realise they have more in common with the fellow in the trench opposite than the dickhead commanding you from his comfy seat miles away from France.

The Doctor had fought in World War I. He'd been quite upset over the whole thing. The Master had made a killing dealing arms, which had just set him off more.

The Arrangement meant a tacit non-interference in some of each other's activities; for other, less dangerous or murderous plans, the Doctor could be encouraged to go along with his old friend, for old time's sake. All in all, it meant that while neither really won, neither really lost and both were able to demonstrate to their bosses, the Time Lords and whoever had hired Missy that week, if she had been hired, the great strides they were making against a cunning and well-informed adversary.

Well, demonstrate, if the Time Lords actually gave a damn about Earth outside of ensuring humanity never learnt of the existence of aliens. That would just raise too many questions.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor was feeding the ducks at St. James' Park and resolutely ignoring the children playing loudly nearby as Missy approached. He offered her the bag of bird food, and she shook her head. He looked at her face, breathed out slowly.

"Go on then," Missy said.

"I take it the Daleks are back in town," he said. "This one of yours, or one of theirs?" He watched her face again. "Oh. Oh, no."

"There's more," she said. "Ever heard of a TykeBomb?"

"An organic Dalek weapon. Basically a human shaped bomb. They've never built one good enough to fool the Time Lord's security systems though." The Doctor waited. "I take it from your silence they've since rectified those flaws."

"That's a yes."

"America?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Showy, that," he said. "They've got the most bombs - that's what I'm assuming they picked them for. And they do love pouring money into their military. They'll be able to hit a lot of countries."

"Every country," said Missy. "The Earth and all the Kingdoms thereof. The TykeBomb will grow to eleven, its atoms will resonate with the world's and all of the world's matter will be under its control. And then. Bye."

The Doctor sprinkled the last of the food on the pond's surface, shoved the bag in his pocket. He turned and looked at Missy.

"Well, I'm going to tell the Time Lords," he said, and made to take a step.

Missy caught him by the upper arm, dug her nails in. "You'll do no such thing. They'll ask how you got the information."

"I'll lie."

"You can't _lie_."

"I've spent the last 3200 years lying to them, if you hadn't noticed. Usually about _you_. Besides," said the Doctor. "The Time Lords won't want the whole planet going up in smoke. They have plans for the dolphins. And the bees. I'll think of something."

"You really think the Time Lords will save this whole planet, a scientific mistake, from a Dalek plot, for the _bees_? On the word of a low-ranking Watcher? Any more bright ideas, sunshine?"

"Technically - "

"You're the highest ranking Watcher on Earth. By that logic, I'm the greatest criminal on this planet. No competition, title doesn't mean anything. So?"

The Doctor crossed his arms, looked at his feet. "We could drink?"

"We could do that."

"Shall we go to mine?"

"Sounds like a plan."

 

* * *

 

If the Doctor had been allowed to travel beyond the Earth and Gallifrey, perhaps he would have caught Missy sooner - or you know, actually caught her at all - as she tended to branch out beyond the atmosphere when she got bored. In her early days, she'd gotten as far as Tootaine, but as her vortex manipulator went from "cutting edge" to "all the practicality of a Sony Walkman" to "the equivalent of a laser-come-floppy disc" and aged, she'd become limited to the solar system.

Time travel was also on the fritz, and she was stuck to hopping between decades, which just got irritating. Still, she got to do more actual Time Lording than the Doctor did. The Doctor was forbidden from leaving Earth - the Time Lord's logic being that Missy would not have left Earth either, and they hadn't yet altered his orders when it became clear that this was not the case. It had become clear about 3000 years ago. The last the Doctor had heard, his case was up before its fourteenth tribunal.

As it was, instead, the Doctor collected books with the urgency of a one-armed bricklayer and the passion of a Republican defending Jesus' right to bear arms. If he was completely honest with himself, his bookshop was just a place to store his collection when it had begun overspilling his flat in the mid-1500s. In order to maintain his cover as a secondhand bookseller, he used everything up to and including physical violence to prevent his rare customers making a purchase. Odd outfits, glowering looks, a Scottish accent, erratic opening hours - those were masterfully done, as he was a Time Lord - he was very good at it.

Like all book collectors, the Doctor specialised. After his and Koschei's hand in (the colossal fuckup that was) the creation of Earth, he liked to collect books foreseeing Earth's doom. He did this with the smug and sad knowledge that he'd probably be the only being who would be there when the end did come for this stupid, wonderful mistake of a planet.

In his Tenth body he'd also started collecting Bibles with spelling errors and mistakes. A story of their own making, and they couldn't even keep it straight. Humans, huh? Brilliant! His Tenth body had been a mess of joy and passion and deep, angsty depression. The Doctor now didn't like to dwell on that.

His collection of bad books of prophecy lacked one key tome, which was fair enough because he didn't actually know about it yet. Written by a woman trapped in the hell that was 17th-century Lancashire, the one remaining copy of the book in the universe was currently on a shelf some forty miles away from where the Doctor and Missy were sitting in his Soho shop, working their way through a sommelier's wet dream of a wine cellar. When books didn't work their magic and distract him from the drudgery and distance of his life, alcohol usually did the trick.

Metaphorically, this book of prophecy had just begun to tick.

It was now three o'clock. The Dalek's plan had been in play for fifteen hours (T-Minus ten years, three hundred and sixty-four days) and the two Time Lords had been drinking for six of them. They sat together on a battered couch (it had survived the Blitz) in the Doctor's flat above his shop in Soho working on the issue at hand.

"You did, not, invent. The ladybird," the Doctor said, and tried to hold his head up. He pushed on the back of his skull with his free hand, turned his head to face Missy. "That was. Whatsherface. Got apace. A face. Zian. Brax and her, they did the. Dated."

"Nah. I done it," said Missy, attempting to fill up her glass, but there was something wrong with the depth perception in the room. She gave up, swigged from the bottle for a good few seconds and sighed heavily. She handed it to the Doctor. "Ladybirds. Love a lahdabahrd. Gallifrey. Colurs. Miss em."

The Doctor drank from the same bottle.

"Goess it means I can. Go home," he said. "No earth. Back to. Lording."

"This si your home." said Missy. She hit the wall to make her point, nearly missed.

"'S where I rest. My thingy."

"Face."

"Head."

"Gallifrey," said Missy sleepily.

The Doctor slid down in his seat, ended up leaning against Missy. She patted him clumsily on the head.

"This. place. Kosch. It's your face place. Also."

"Also."

 

If Time Lords were just slightly better evolved, they probably could have figured out a method to sober up instantly. As it was, they fell asleep on the couch and had to do it the human way. Nobody's perfect.

 

The Doctor had a splitting headache when he opened his eyes, so he closed them again. Eventually, Missy shoved at him to get off her. He fell asleep on the floor, dreamt he was back in World War I and woke up on the floor, one of the couch pillows stuck under his head and a crocheted blanket wrapped around him. The Doctor kept his eyes shut and hoped he wasn't just imagining bacon and eggs cooking in the next room. Missy's singing he could do without, though. He waited for her to finish imitating a Clanger.

""Rocca's in the. Cupboard," he said, and he heard the tap being turned on.

Missy delivered him a glass of fizzling Berrocca, clunking it down on the table. He fell asleep again, breathing in the dust of his carpet. He really should vacuum.

"You need to regenerate, old man," Missy said, collapsing on the couch, dumping two chipped plates on the table amongst the glasses and bottles. "Wake up. Breakfast. I had an idea."

The Doctor mashed his face into the cushion and dragged himself up onto the furniture into a sitting position. Once vertical-ish, he gulped down his drink, coughed. Missy rubbed his back, handed him another glass of juice.

"'nk you," he said, taking a sip.

"What if," Missy said. "He didn't grow up like a Dalek. Because the alternative is either the Daleks or the Time Lords win, and we spend the rest of eternity back home, me in jail, you playing the role of desk jockey and they occasionally haul you out in front of a camera to comment on Earth affairs, or-"

"In a Dalek Prison camp," said the Doctor grimly, thinking of just how damn long eternity is. "Well he's not going to grow up like a Dalek. He's going to grow up like an American boy, which is more or less the same thing if you're from the South."

Missy gave him a look. "Think positive, please."

"I was actually thinking something similar over the Versailles 1760 vintage," said the Doctor, referring to wine that could have fetched tens of thousands of pounds from the right buyer. They'd mixed it with orange juice. "The right outside influences could point him in a less Daleky direction. We could be those influencers, in that direction."

"A more Time Lord direction," said Missy dryly, cutting up her bacon. "Pass the salt."

The Doctor passed it. "I'd rather passive and snooty than xenophobic and shooty."

"You're saying our people aren't xenophobic?"

The Doctor shrugged. "You've a point there. But shift him over. Guide him."

"Like - Watchers."

"I'm the Watcher here, you're just a - quarry."

"The Hugh Jackman to your Russell Crowe. Guides."

"I think the concept you're looking for is godparents," said the Doctor. "Fancy that. So it looks like you're trying to play your role, and if it comes to it, like I was playing mine." He shoved some food in his mouth. "Is there any chance of a cup of tea?"

Missy looked at him, narrowed her eyes.

"Of all the human habits, sexism had to rub off on you? I mean, at least when I smoked the majority of humans thought it was good for them," she said. "I thought you overcame that after all the shit with your Eleventh body."

"Sorry," said the Doctor, getting up, swaying. "I'll boil the kettle." He strode into the kitchen.

"Godparents," said Missy. "I never would have thought of that."

 

* * *

  

The Daleks finally got their dark and stormy night four days later; created by the Daleks themselves as a cover for their one warship that could exist on Earth. It had been constructed over the past two hundred years, flew under the Time Lord's literal and figurative radar. It had managed to escape the Doctor's notice, through a great deal of effort on the part of Missy.

In another universe, someone could have just set fire to the hospital and just ensured the records room was destroyed; in this universe there is a photo of a Dalek when you look up "overzealous" in a dictionary. The ship opened fire on the hospital four hours after the Dowlings and the Youngs had left the hospital, and Baby USA had been removed by his adoptive parents.

Daleks Hastur and Ligur waved their egg-whisks at each other happily, celebrating their success.

"CONCEAL THE SHIP!" Hastur declared.

"ALL POWER AND GLORY TO THE DALEKS!" Ligur added.

 

* * *

 

"Casualties are as yet not confirmed, and authorities are speculating that the cause of the fire was a broken fuse - " the Doctor switched the channel over. He poured the last of the whiskey into his tea. He probably had another bottle somewhere.

"Your tea's getting cold!" he called. "I can't be bothered putting on another pot."

"Are you ever going to fix your shower?" Missy yelled back. "The hot water barely works."

"Then shower at your place, if it's such a pain."

"I'm fixing yours tomorrow. I need a challenge. Ancient plumbing, modern tools."

Missy came out of the bedroom in one of the Doctor's 1960s t-shirts, combing her fingers through her damp hair. She lay down on the couch and slung her legs over his lap. The Doctor looked at her toenail polish with a confused tilt to his head, lifted one of her feet up to examine it better.

"I'll never understand this. Why is it red? No one can see it when you've got shoes on."

"I can do yours," Missy said, waving her foot in front of his face.

"Tomorrow."

"I have a nice blue. Kind of like your TARDIS," said Missy. She put her foot back down. "What are we watching?"

"Not the news. Never the news," he said, pulling a blanket over their legs, arranging it so it covered Missy's feet too. "If this planet's going to hell, the least I can do is finish watching the X-Files."

 

* * *

 

The American Cultural Attache's wife, Harriet - and it really isn't true what they say about her, she's quite lovely - took her baby home and named him Warlock, because as an American, to her, their names didn't mean shit. Soon, an ad for a nanny went out. Discreet. Educated. Secure. Any gender fine.

How modern.

The Doctor, over the years, had amassed a list of allies and contacts several miles long. As the baby grew into a toddler, he phoned Kate Stewart, who worked for the United Nations Blue Berets and asked her a favour.

"I'll send my best," she promised him, and cadet Richard Richardson was dispatched as the new nanny to the attache's family. Richard regaled the new baby with the wonders of democracy, encouraged it to support at least some form of gun control, and reading lots of Enid Blyton first editions, except the ones with the golliwogs.

At the same time the new head of house arrived. She called herself Esther Mists. Harriet was happy to hire her, because she was so British and looked kind of like Mary Poppins, and that's all you really need to look for in an employee. She was meant to be live-in but kept her own lodgings and for some reason, this didn't bother Harriet. Miss Mists was wonderful.

Miss Mists seemed to never do any actual work herself and spent a lot of time sitting in the garden wearing sunglasses and smoking while watching Warlock play with various indistinguishable bits of plastic. The rest of the employees were suddenly happy to work overtime and underpaid, eyes slightly gazed and mouths bent in half-smiles. The American dream in the middle of Grovesnor Square.

As the toddler became a precocious brat of a child, Richard Richardson was deployed to [REDACTED] in order to [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. On the same day he shipped out, Esther Mists handed in her resignation. The household was sad to see her go, but not so much that they could never be forced to work overtime to such a degree again.

 

Back in his flat, the Doctor and Missy compared notes, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, an advertisement for tutors went out. Science, maths, english, history. Doctorate preferred; one child. Schoolroom provided. Child of respected diplomat.

Missy dialled a number, waved the Doctor off. He leant against the bench as she talked, playing with her lighter.

"Hey. Yeah, it's me. I need a favour. And you can't ask, or time will explode. Cool. Yeah, I'll text you."

She hung up, looked at the Doctor. Snatched her lighter back.

"How are you?" he said.

"Good, I sounded good," she said. "I erase my own memory, I know I do that, but I'm going to be up for it."

"Look after the shop for me," said the Doctor. "Don't sell anything."

"I still don't think you fully grasp the point of a shop, my dear Doctor."

The Doctor straightened his tie, picked up his briefcase. "I grasp it. I don't agree with it, is all. I'm off."

Missy followed him to the doorway, leant against the doorframe and watched the Doctor step out into the unusually sunny street.

"Have a nice day at work, dear!" she called. "Doesn't your wife get a kiss?"

The Doctor waved a hand at her, flustered. "Not in - public, Missy. Give me your lighter as well, you need to stop smoking. It's even falling out of fashion with the humans."

Missy grinned, tossed him the Bic. "Have fun. Say hi to me for me."

 

* * *

 

As little Warlock was growing into a being that could control his own bladder and sputum production, with literacy and numeracy skills, two new members of the household appeared.

Mr Saxon, smooth talker extraordinaire, would be educating Warlock on numeracy, science and politics while Doctor Smith, a delightfully bumbling old man - in Warlock's mother's opinion - would be taking history and english, but more often than not would take Warlock down to the garage and they'd spend a few hours building small gadgets with the gardeners. The last Wednesday of every month Dr Smith, Mr Saxon and Warlock would go to a gallery or museum for Art and History appreciation.

"I can't believe you helped him sneak in popcorn. You're such a dad," whispered the Master, not looking away from the IMAX documentary on tropical fish. "I can't make you tell me what this is all about, can I? I'm going to wipe my own memory anyway."

The Doctor shook his head. "Best not to. You know how you are. It's good to see you. Have you done the thing with the Toclafane yet?"

The Master nodded, then laughed as a cuttlefish swam onscreen.

"That was a bad day for me," said the Doctor.

"I'll bet it was."

Mr Saxon was a full head shorter than the Doctor, with short brown hair and nicer suits. He taught Warlock all about Vlad Drakul and the George Bushes and Attila the Hun (he was a politics tutor, after all) except for the bits about Vladdy saying his prayers every day and Attila always being nice to his mother, who had actually been a lovely lady and had the Master round for tea several times.

Dr Smith had a wider range to pick from, and so - in the schoolroom and over engineering kits - he regaled Warlock with tales of Florence Nightingale and Abraham Lincoln and the wonders of humanity, though he neglected to mention Nightingale's racism and issues with syphilis, or Lincoln's racism and issues with syphilis. Which had briefly become the Doctor's own issue of syphilis but that's another story for another time.

Warlock liked Transformers, commenting 'first' on the internet and for whatever reason, chose baseball as his favourite sport. He was a fan of banana ice-cream and video games where he could play as a grizzled white man with a five o'clock shadow. He hated baths. He was disturbingly, disgustingly, discerningly average.

 

Late on a Saturday afternoon, Missy was waiting for the Doctor in St James's Park. Through no small amount of ruthlessness, she'd managed to score an empty bench.

"He's too damn normal," she said by way of greeting.

The Doctor took a seat. She handed him a Tesco sandwich, put down her book.

"I agree. I thought he'd be - well, I knew he'd look human, but he's so -"

"You can say he's boring, Doctor, some kids just _are_."

"He should be a powerhouse of alien energy right now. We should be able to feel it," the Doctor made a hand motion, "pouring off him. Your other self can't sense it either, you couldn't feel it when he was a baby. Unless -"

"The Daleks aren't that good," said Missy. "Nowhere near. Not with something that will be able to destroy the world. That kind of energy just can't be suppressed."

"Someone."

"Something," said Missy. "He's going to receive his first connection with the Dalek satellites on his eleventh birthday. Then it's just a matter of focusing all his power and then, completely under the Time Lords radar, boom. Bye bye Sol 3, thanks for all the fish."

The Doctor ran his hands down his face. "How are they going to introduce him to these powers? I sincerely doubt even the Daleks think it a good idea to give an eleven-year-old psychic abilities cold turkey."

"Ha. Remember the first time we tried to mentally link? We both nearly died. Good times."

"I remember a lot of weird attempts at linking," said the Doctor, a strange, uncomfortable look on his face that Missy didn't quite get. "So how do they introduce him to his powers?"

"A guide shall appear," said Missy. "I volunteered, but they're concerned that I may skew him in my own direction, as if I haven't been doing that myself already. The guide shall appear in a familiar form to a human, and sort of. Introduce the concepts. Instil more hatred of earth. On his birthday. Skills develop over a few weeks, then boom."

"I've been invited to his party. His eleventh. Might be the last party I ever go to."

"Do you get a plus-one?"

"They might recognise you."

"It's been eleven years and I wore a perception filter ninety percent of the time, my dear. I think we'll be fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. WEDNESDAY

*** * ***

**WEDNESDAY, 1917**

*** * ***

The Doctor let himself sink back into the mud, eyes fluttering shut. The shells continued to fall, the machine guns didn't fall silent, the cries of the men just got louder. It was such an - anonymous death, this time. It almost didn't seem fair.

"Doctor, Doctor, you're right, you'll be right, you'll be fine - " one of the newer Privates was gabbling at him. "You're going to be okay, please be okay, keep your eyes open, oh fucking hell."

"Michael," said the Doctor, and opened his eyes. His vision blurred. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here," and there were cold, grubby hands on his cold, dirty face.

His blood was hot as it pulsed out of him, trickling down his arm and chest, cooling rapidly in the winter air. "Sorry, Michael, I don't think I'll be coming to your wedding when we get home."

"Doctor - " he felt Michael turn, give the familiar shouted, shaking order. "Stretcher bearers! Stretcher bearers!"

The mud was thick and sucking, and the Doctor bit the inside of his mouth until he felt blood.

"I need my kit," he said, eyes burning with tears. "I need to get something out."

"Doctor, you need to lie still, they'll be here soon-"

"They'll take all night," said the Doctor grimly, and just as he said that the rain began to fall again. "I need to." He couldn't regenerate here, it'd kill the poor boy and the questions - would be incredible. "I need you to go find me the Lieutenant." Who was down the other end of the trench with the newer artillery men, overseeing the Aussies - or was it the Canooks? The New Zedders? "I need him, I need to tell him something."

"Doctor-" said Michael, placing the Doctor's sopping, mud-stained kit beside him. He placed the Doctor's hand on it.

"Go, please. It's going to be fine," said the Doctor, and watched through slitted eyes as the poor boy slipped and slid away in the muck. With his good arm, the Doctor rummaged through his bag and found the two items he needed for his plan. The first was his emergency transporter from Atlantis, ancient and unused, well-maintained. The second was a grenade. Willing his eyes to focus, he checked the coordinates on the transporter - fine - and strapped it on, set the auto-timer. Ten seconds. It had to look like a lucky hit.

Gritting his teeth, the Doctor arranged his bad hand so the fingers hooked into the grenade's pin. Five seconds. He used his good arm to pull the grenade free of its pin and rolled over on top of it.

Three - two -

 

one.

 

*** * ***

**WEDNESDAY, NOWISH**

* * * 

It was a hot August day. The heat shimmered off the tarmac of the road.

"Hold my hand."

"No Thete, das gay."

The Doctor gave Missy a cold look.

"Are you kidding me right now."

"It's what all the ten year old boys are saying," said Missy. "I was hanging round with the ones who play outside the shop yesterday. I'm hip with the kids."

"As long as you weren't selling them anything. Now hold my damn hand Missy, or I'll tell them you're home knitting."

Missy rolled her eyes, linked her hand with the Doctor's. "Aren't you worried the Time Lord satellites will pick it up?" she asked, and the Doctor dropped her hand like she'd sprouted plague.

"I'm touched. You look handsome," she said, grabbing his hand again. "When did you buy that suit? The 1920s?"

"1927 and shut up. It's a flapper-themed party, and you know it," said the Doctor. "Because that's what every eleven year old wants. God, I think I'm more in touch with my kids than these parents."

"How are your kids?"

"Hm," said the Doctor. "Come on."

They rounded the corner and strolled up the leafy Notting Hill Street, were waved through the gate by the doorman.

"Did you get him a present?" Missy asked. "Humans do presents on their birthdays, I saw it on TV."

"Our presence."

The party was separated into two areas; the children's play area, and the centre focus for the eleven-year-old's birthday, the parents zone. Each area was separately catered and entertained. There was a jazz trio bopping away in the adult zone, and the Amazing Harvey and Wanda, Magicians, were attempting to entertain the children. The Doctor and Missy did alternate circles of the rooms, watching the children, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever the Daleks would send.

"Why did they say it has to be today, during the party, on his birthday?" the Doctor asked to Missy when he brought her a champagne.

"It's how the calculations worked out," she said, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, I'm here. Let's go say hi."

Missy grabbed the Doctor's wrist, dragged his arm over her shoulders and slung her own arm around his waist. The Doctor winced. She ignored him and brought them over to where Mr Saxon and his date had just arrived.

"What's up?" The Master said to Missy and the Doctor. "This is Lucy."

Lucy, a stunning blonde in a slinky red dress, smiled vacantly at them. As with many of the Master's human companions, she had the glazed look of mind control about her.

The Doctor frowned at Lucy. "Master, could you-"

Missy smacked him in the chest. "Nice," said Missy. "Don't go getting all _moral_ now, the planet's at stake."

"I know," said the Master. "You look good too. Well done us."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "What time is this - thing - meant to happen?"

Missy grabbed the Master's wrist and checked his shiny Rolex. "Just over a minute away," she said, glancing about.

"What are we looking for?" the Master asked.

"Something Dalekky," the Doctor said. "Sounds, sights, lasers. Anything."

"Right."

The Doctor disentangled himself from Missy, moved across to an angle where he could see the children's room. Missy herself went across to the largest of the street-facing windows; the Master crossed to the door that led to the rest of the house, Lucy trailing after him open-mouthed. The Doctor tapped his fingers against his palms, counting.

"Dr Smith?" asked Warlock. "Do you hate magicians too?"

The Doctor had a very strong set of opinions on magicians (he loved them, hated it when the Master said he used to dress like one, which he _didn't_ ), and concentrated on counting.

"Clara," he said, then shook himself. "Warlock. Happy birthday." Forty-five seconds. "How are you feeling?"

"I ate too much cake."

"They haven't even brought the cake out yet." Thirty.

"I had a cake for breakfast. I feel sick."

The Doctor took two steps back from the chubby boy. Twenty. "Good presents? Anything….unusual?"

"Who's that lady you brought with you, Doctor?"

"My wife," said the Doctor. Fifteen. "She's, my." He looked over at the Master, who held up his hands. Nothing.

"Wife."

Missy. Shook her head.

Five. 

"She's pretty for an old lady."

"Thanks."

Lucy. Stared vacantly.

Three.

Two.

One.

The Doctor turned on his heels, hearts racing, waiting, expecting -

Warlock blinked up at him. "They're going to pull a rabbit out of the hat in a minute. Would you like to come watch?"

Glass shattered, and all three Gallifreyans in the room wheeled around.

"Sorry!" tittered one of the women, stooping to help the waitress pick up the shards of a champagne glass. "Oh, me, butterfingers!"

It had been ten seconds since the supposed Dalek assistant was meant to arrive -

Eleven.

Twelve.

"Doctor?"

"Yeah, yes, yeah, I'll come," said the Doctor, not sure what he was agreeing to. He glanced around at Missy again, who was in serious conversation with herself and Lucy, pointing at the window, glancing around.

"I'll be right back," said the Doctor. He crossed the room to the Masters.

"It's late," said Missy. "This isn't like the Daleks."

"Do you have the right party? Right kid?" asked the Master. "In your old age, it makes sense that some confusion could be setting in. We really match, this time around. Was that deliberate, the Edwardian Scottish grumpy grandparents aesthetic?"

Both the Doctor and Missy gave him looks. He shrugged.

"Glass houses," said the Doctor darkly.

"Just checking," the Master said. "Well. I'll just be goi-"

"Doctor, Mr Saxon! Come watch the rabbit!"

"I'll keep watch," said Missy, patting the Doctor on the upper arm. "Lucy, tell me, how did you and I meet?"

"She was standing outside my tube station," said the Master over his shoulder. "About an hour ago. I've been staying at our, meaning mine and hers, Missy, flat while I'm, meaning her, at yours."

The Master and the Doctor followed Warlock and watched the Amazing Harvey pull a rabbit, a mouse-thing and a ferret from increasingly tiny hats and applauded on cue. The Doctor glanced across at Missy; Missy was on the phone, biting one of her nails. Lucy was gazing at the doorframe, her mouth hanging open.

"Very good, Warlock," said the Master. "I bet you haven't done your homework yet, though," he added, and the child balked.

"Now now, Mr Saxon, it's his birthday," said the Doctor. "He doesn't have to hand in any homework for the rest of the week. That's our present to you."

"Is it?"

"Sure, why not," said the Doctor, adding under his breath, "If there is a rest of the week."

"Hello!" said Missy, approaching them. "Hello Warlock, nice to meet you. Darling. Can I borrow my husband for a tick?" She grabbed the Doctor, pulled him to the side.

"We've got to go. The Daleks just called. They said the thing's been released."

"It's not _here, Missy_."

"I know it's _not here, Doctor_ , I lied to them. Said it was."

"Why would you - what the hell-" he saw her face, softened. "Okay, that was an understandable decision. So where is it?"

"I don't know. We need to work on a scanner, or a tracker, or something." Missy chewed her bottom lip. "I have some things at my place. I'll go check."

"And my TARDIS. There's probably something in there. Right."

The Doctor and Missy returned to Warlock and the Master. Warlock was demonstrating his Optimus Prime toy to the Master, who looked bewildered.

"I'm terribly sorry Warlock, but we've just had a family emergency and we're going to need to go," Missy lied smoothly. "Thank you for the lovely party."

"Cool toy," said the Doctor. "See you soon, Warlock!"

"Bye, Dr Smith. Thanks for coming," said the boy, still fiddling with the toy in a decidedly un-Daleklike manner.

 

Missy hustled the Doctor out of the party, leaving a bewildered Master in their wake.

 

"We've fucked up so much," she said, hailing a taxi. "Get in. Soho, please." The cab took off. "We need to get back to the shop fast."

"We fucked up? _We_ fucked up?" said the Doctor. "Last time I checked, _I_ worked for the good guys. For a given value of good guys."

"And I need to wipe my own mind," said Missy, pulling a communicator out of her ridiculously small clutch, typing quickly. "There we go. Nice work, me. You start the scanner stuff. Anything psychic, non-"

"Anything non-Time Lord. We both did our time in engineering, Missy, I know what parameters to look for. How did you get the wrong kid? What if he was the right kid-"

"Did he look like the right kid? Did he act like it? Did he feel like it?"

There was a resounding, judgemental silence from the front of the cab.

"Uh, I didn't mean for that last part to sound creepy."

"No. So where is the right kid? Missy. Jesus. You haven't fucked up this much since Eden."

Silence once again reigned.

"Can I get an address beyond Soho, please?" the driver eventually asked. "I'm a bit lost."

"We're all going to lose," said the Doctor quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a hot August day far away from London. A heat haze hung over the fields.

Daleks had a strange accent, due to the fact that they were a) aliens and b) whatever they were saying, they'd rather be saying "EXTERMINATE," preferably repeatedly and at an increased volume.

"DELIVERY!" screeched a Dalek. It still managed to make it sound like "EXTERMINATE."

The Dalek pootled away across the fields, leaving a small thing behind. It was silver and mostly toaster-shaped, with a smaller rectangle on one end.

"Exterminate," said the thing, the noise coming out of the smaller rectangle. If you looked closer, you could almost see it was kind of meant to look like a dog, if the designer of the dog was a Cubist with a penchant for Zeerust style. He wasn't; the designer of Earth's various dogs was called Tucken and though his family was poor, he'd made a name for himself as a gene-designer on Gallifrey. Tucken personally preferred his art realistic; and he had no hand in the thing that had appeared on the dusty road in the British summer. If anything, he would have destroyed it then sued the Daleks for copyright infringement.

The canine-shaped object had been prepared for one purpose; to guide the TykeBomb. To prepare it. It would help the TykeBomb destroy.

"ENGAGING SCANNERS," said the canine. It would find its master.

The scanners picked up the faint signal of aforementioned master down the end of the road. As it wheeled itself there (the Doctor and Missy both always felt the Daleks would probably have to overcome stairs before they had a chance of defeating the Time Lords - they'd been eating crow about that) the air around it shimmered as it put on a disguise. German Shepard-y. That'd do for now.

The canine rolled on, outwardly looking like a dribbly, trotting hound going for a walk and having a pant. Soon it could hear voices coming out of a tree - four figures sat up in its branches.

"He won't, and you know it. You'll get something like a mouse, if that."

The canine tilted its head, and as it did, heard the sound of its master's voice. Or rather, mistress's.

"Nah, I'm getting a dog. I can tell."

"You won't," said the first voice.

"What kind of dog do you want, Clara?" asked another of the children.

Silence. Everyone listened; the wind rustled in the surrounding fields, through the tree's leaves.

"Kind of little one," she said finally. "Small enough to sleep in my room and come in the car. But big enough to you know, run real fast and jump and play properly. Not like my nan's dog."

If you had listened and known what you would have been listening for, you could have heard the quiet grinds and whirs as the canine recalibrated its design projection.

"Flecky. A kind of mongrel."

Whiiiirrrr. Crunch.

"With one sticky-up ear and one floppy one."

Pop.

"What colour, Clara?" asked a voice that would sound more male when puberty hit.

The canine waited.

"Blue," said Clara finally.

"FUCK." said the canine, scanning through its database of Earth Dog Breeds by Tucken™.

"Did you hear something?" said the first girl to speak.

Success. There was a final wheezing and groaning as the canine found a suitable shade of blue. It woofed, experimentally. Nice.

"What was that?" asked the boy. "Sounded like a dog."

There were four thumps as the children leapt from the tree; daredevils the lot of them. Clara, the shortest, with long brown hair and a grubby pink dress, spotted the canine first.

It wagged its tail. Its master. No, not that Master. 

"It's my dog!" she cheered. Her friends, two girls and a boy, stared.

"Really?" the boy said finally.

"Yep!" she said, and the canine wagged its tail, as per its mission briefing. He - it. It stuck its tongue out and panted again, tilted its head.

"Right then," said another of Clara's friends, this one with darker skin and a tremendous puff of black hair. She was called Courtney. "What's its name then?"

Clara squinted at the canine. The canine affected a look of warmth. This would help define it, help guide it on its mission to aid the Daleks. Aid the Tykebomb.

"His name is K-9," said Clara slowly. "Like, the letter K. Then the number 9."

"Why? That's a dumb name," said Courtney. "You should just call it Dog, if you're gonna call it K9."

"I think it's a cool name," said Danny quickly.

"It's aight," declared the last girl, Peri. "I'm gonna call my dog William."

"K, because of when I spelt my name as Clara-with-a-K, right? And nine, because that's my favourite number," Clara said defensively.

K9 found itself approving, wagging its tail not because it was programmed to do so, but because it - he, felt like it.

"Time for lunch," Clara decided, and the group turned and began heading back to town. She called over her shoulder, "Come on, K9!"

K9 paused, found himself bounding after the children. He would guide the Tyke, and succeed in his mission. He would do whatever she wanted.

 

* * *

 

Missy was building. The Doctor was calibrating. Occasionally he would cast a longing look over at the liquor cabinet.

"I've got people who can go out and help us look," the Doctor said, looking at a datapad. He quickly typed an equation about seven people on the planet would have been able to understand. "I could ring them."

"You've got people." Missy was lying on the floor underneath the half-broken scanner they were trying to repair. "That's so wonderful for you. That's really nice."

"I've always got people," he said. "That's healthy. You need more people. You cope better, you know, with social networks. As annoying as they are."

"I have you. I need a spanner."

He gave her a spanner, kept typing, checked a line of writing on a notebook. Looked at the liquor cabinet.

"Screwdriver."

He gave her a screwdriver. "How do you _lose_ a baby, Missy? They're at least a couple of kilos. We can't scan if we don't even know what country it's in. We can't scan the globe all at once, the Time Lords will pick it up."

"Wrench," said Missy, and the Doctor gave it to her. Then he gave up and crossed to the liquor cabinet, found a bottle of whiskey that had survived Napoleon and two world wars.

"Put coke in mine," said Missy, and the nation of Scotland began to sob as a collective. "I don't know," she said. "It was not my fault. I gave the baby to the right nurse. Nun. nun-nurse."

She shuffled out from under the scanner, skirt hiking up around her legs and grease smeared on her face. This action, for reasons related primarily to chemicals, distracted the Doctor from his task for a few seconds. Then he turned back and kept pouring. He handed her a glass, got out a third one for himself. It paid to be prepared.

Missy focused on his hands as he tipped the liquor in the glasses, thinking hard.

"It pays to be prepared," the Doctor said. Handed her a glass. "Missy? What is it?"

Missy looked at the Doctor, horror dawning on her face. "There was a third baby. There must have been a third," she said in a rush. "Goddamn nuns, you can't get them to bring down the Nazis through song and dance and you can't get them to run a hospital without seriously immoral testing procedures and you can't get them to swap a damn baby right."

"They swapped the babies accidentally?" the Doctor asked. He knocked back his first drink. "Well - well - there must be records! What hospital was it?"

"Something out in the country," she said. "Run by nuns. We started that order, actually, remember, the one with the Chattering Lady."

"You don't remember the name, do you?"

"You don't remember your _birthday_."

"Yeah, my birthday isn't going to _destroy the world_. What's your excuse?"

Missy drained her glass. The Doctor followed suit. "I get up to a lot, Doctor. It was one night, eleven years ago. We could go out to where I think the hospital is, but-"

"We can't go near where the TykeBomb might be, not without the right precautions," said the Doctor, filling his glasses again. He handed the bottle to Missy, who put it back in the cupboard. "I was researching. If it's in receipt of its powers, and this guide thing, it could already be able to sense Time Lords."

"I sincerely doubt it's going to be near the hospital," said Missy, annoyed. "I think it was called - the town. Uh."

"I still can't believe you don't remember the town. This is your plan, it's what you wanted."

"I came here and drank until my brain came out of my ears, Doctor," said Missy. "I like this planet. This is something we - " she gestured between the two of them, "helped make. And I, am not like you. I don't have a family on Gallifrey waiting for me."

"My family didn't wait for me, you know that," said the Doctor. He poured himself another drink, with the sudden strange urge to read the Maltese Falcon. "That's your doing. Last time I saw them was the 14th century. My daughter had a baby last decade. I have a granddaughter. I still haven't met her. Missy."

"It had a field in it," said Missy slowly, pointedly shutting the liquor cabinet doors, latching them. She left the room, wiping at the grease on her face. She called over her shoulder. "The name, I mean, not the place, though the place may also have fields. I'm getting a book. I'll be a while."

The Doctor got on the floor and slid under the scanner, picking out a wire Missy had connected poorly. He retrieved the screwdriver and pliers, set to work and tried to lose himself in the mechanics. Eventually he felt Missy's footsteps vibrating through the floor as she returned. She nudged his foot with her own.

"Tadfield," she said slowly, looking at a country towns walking guidebook. "Come on, get up. I'll drive, it's not too far. Find the hospital, find the records. We'll fix the scanner if for whatever reason they're gone."

* * *

 

*** * *** **  
STILL WEDNESDAY**

*** * ***

If you look up theodolite in the dictionary, there won't be a definition. If you google it however, there should be an answer. Primarily it was a tool used by surveyors, but it would be a hell of a surveyor to be up on the dales at eleven PM in a cape holding a theodolite and some crystals.

Most surveyors also say stuff like, "I'm sure someone's moved these marker pegs, George," and "Calm down, Rupert," and "soon have that relief road in here, shit yeah." This one was muttering spells.

She wore a sensible cloak, for she was a sensible person, and had clothes on underneath, including, among other articles, runners and a thick jumper. Most books on witchcraft will tell you witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men.

Martha Jones had grown up shorter than she'd hoped, but very pretty. She was taking a year off from her medical degree because she wasn't going to get it - for one, her sister's unemployment crisis had grown up to take over her own life and she would have failed her exams if she didn't, and two, the world was going to end so why not spend the last of it wandering about the British countryside and maybe -

Just maybe, though she'd never admit it to her horrified mother, Martha could _stop it from happening_.

Martha made one more note on the Ordinance Survey map she'd brought with her, held it up to the torchlight. Then, she smiled because it was a difficult job well done. She gathered her things - the theodolite, the map, the thermos of tea, the Book - and placed them in her bicycle's basket. It was a sensible two-wheeler she'd picked up from the local War on Want, along with most of her clothes and the furniture in her cottage. It did the job, even if the gears were useless. But hey, it was downhill all the way to the village.

Perhaps slightly not-sensibly, Martha let the bike accelerate through the dark night, hair and cloak streaming out behind her like a comet's tail, trying not think about what was going to happen in less than two weeks. Too late. Her stomach knotted up with nerves, tension, fear.

However it turned out she had an even more pressing issue to deal with - the not-unheard-of presence of cars on roads.

 

* * *

 

The Bentley was cooling down. The tempers in the car were heating up. The radio continued to softly croon Queen.

"You said you saw it signposted," she said to the Doctor. "You do the reading."

"You drive terrifyingly fast," the Doctor retorted. "It flashed by. Why weren't you looking for it too? I'm not the one who's been here before."

"Bull. And it's been eleven years, Doctor!" Missy tossed the map on the backseat, started the engine again. "We'll just stop and ask for directions."

"We're not stopping and asking for directions," said the Doctor, and Missy made a noise in the back of her throat. " _No_ , not like that, it's the middle of the night and we're in the middle of nowhere! There's no one _to_ ask."

Missy revved up the car, pulled back onto the road and turned the car around.

"I feel funny," said the Doctor, and Missy rolled her eyes.

"You're sobering up," she said. "A rare occurrence, I know."

The Doctor sniffed derisively. "No, it's something else. I'm sensing something. Slow down."

"I'm not slowing down, I'm finding this damn hospital. With or without you."

The Doctor shut his eyes, tried to concentrate over the strains of Freddy Mercury singing 'Don't Stop Me Now.'

"Doctor, you're not the reason this car plays nothing but Queen, are you?" Missy asked.

"Shut up."

"You do like Cornwall. Of course you do." Missy turned to squint at his face. His closed eyes gave nothing away. "Pasties are right up your bloody street, last time we went on holiday-"

"I just keep getting these flashes of -"

"Of what? If you're going to be sick - "

There was a whirr, a scream, a clunk. Missy slammed on the brakes.

"You hit someone!" said the Doctor. He threw off his seatbelt and bolted out of the car.

"Someone hit me," said Missy. Hey, that excuse worked on Venus. She leant across the front seat, rummaged in the glovebox and pulled out a plastic first-aid kit and a torch.

"Oh Mistress, you really _do_ care," said the Doctor sarcastically, once she was standing beside him on the road.

She handed him the kit, switched on the torch. "You're the Doctor," she said, gesturing at the pair of legs and spinning wheel sticking out of the ditch. "Doctor away."

From the ditch came a female, sore and peeved sounding voice. "What the hell just happened?"

Missy swore. There was a big shiny scratch along the side of the Bentley. She ran to the front of the car to check for further damage.

"Missy," said the Doctor. " _Missy_ \- " No use. He snatched the torch off her, hurried over to the ditch. "Are you okay, young lady?"

"Clearly not," she said, flailing about in the long grass.

"No bones broken," he said, hopefully. "No need to sue either," he added, sending a psychic order enforcing that last comment. "Here, take my hand."

The girl struggled out of the ditch to reveal herself as short, with dark skin and dark hair, bright eyes and a graze on one cheek. For some reason, the word 'vivacious' came to the Doctor's mind.

"You didn't have any lights," Martha said.

"To be fair, neither did you!" called Missy. "What were you doing on my road?"

"And my bike's mangled," said Martha reproachfully.

"Ah. We'll pay for that," said the Doctor. "Well, she will."

"Damn right she will. How am I meant to get home?" Martha looked around wildly, slightly dazed.

"We'll drive you," said the Doctor. Missy snorted. "We _will_ , _Missy_."

Martha leant back into the ditch, gathered her things and handed them to the Doctor. He helped her over to the car, put her in the backseat and dumped all her stuff in with her. Missy was already waiting, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

"Where do you live?" she asked the girl.

"Tadfield, lower Tadfield," she replied. "Are we just leaving the bike?"

"Considering we're not leaving so much a bike as, pieces of bike, yes," said the Doctor, putting his seatbelt back on. His hands were shaking slightly. "Missy. Lights."

Missy switched her headlights on, pulled back onto the road.

"I have a breadknife, you know," said Martha. "Somewhere."

"Dead useful," said Missy drily, turning up the radio. Even 'Fat Bottomed Girls' was a better alternative than some boring concussed human.

"Missy, don't be…" the Doctor said. "Can you find it in the black holes where your hearts should be - "

"You _know_ how hard it is to get quality parts for this? If anything is dented…"

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until the fields began to be dotted with houses, and a small town practically rose up out of nowhere. Even in the dark the village looked idyllic and perfect.

"There's…not a hospital round here, is there?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't need to go to hospital," said Martha, having been quietly examining her extremities in the back seat. "I'm a medi - I'm actually a doctor. I can look after myself, thanks. Just down this lane."

"No, we were looking. For the hospital," said Missy. "It's not for you."

"There's no hospital in Tadfield."

"Any big, hospital shaped buildings?" the Doctor asked. "A high concentration of GPs? An NHS superclinic?"

"Any nuns?" Missy asked. "Evil or not evil, I'm not fussed. Nazis are optional too. Efficient, if nothing else."

"...there was a convent up on the hill," said Martha. "I don't know if they're still there."

The Doctor looked over at Missy, who was making a show, song and practically a dance of concentrating on the road. The car wound through the darkness for a few more minutes, small directions coming from Martha in the backseat. Finally,

"Just here will do," said Martha, and Missy pulled over into the gravel.

Martha quickly gathered her things and got out of the car.

"Sorry for hitting you!" Missy called cheerfully, and drove off.

"Missy, seriously?" Martha heard the man say.

They were just like her parents before their divorce. Martha rolled her eyes and limped back towards the cottage.

Once inside, she shed her cloak and spread the map out on the table, traced a finger over her newest markings and lines. What had she figured out? Whatever was giving her a permanent headache and would apparently cause the end of the world was at the north of the village; if you got too close the signal whited out. Too far and it was useless. 'Britain' wasn't exactly a good marker for finding something that would destroy the planet.

River had tried, obviously, but language had evolved and basically 90% of the 20th and 21st centuries were unrecognisable to the woman. And, Martha had realised as she'd gotten older and read and reread the Book, River was a stubborn, crazy lady far out of her time, with other things on her mind. Martha tapped the paper idly where she believed the old convent was.

Maybe she'd just check what River had said about her coming to this village in the Book. She could have missed something.

Martha reached out to the empty rectangle of air where the Book should have been.

She reached out again.

Still an empty rectangle of air.

 

Martha lifted the map, lifted the theodolite, looked high and low. It shouldn't be - it couldn't be. River had always been very specific about what happened to the book. _No_.

 

Resolutely not letting herself panic, Martha found her torch, grabbed her cloak and ran from the cottage.

 

* * *

 

The Bentley once again sped through the dark, along the curves of the dim road. Not for long.

"Stop, stop, stop the car," said the Doctor, holding up his hand.

Missy quickly moved the car into the gravel on the side of the road. "Are you going to throw up - "

"No, no, no," said the Doctor. "I've got the feeling again. It's back. Do you feel it? How can you not feel this?"

Missy cocked her head. "What do you - oh, okay," she said, as the Doctor unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car into the predawn.

"Right," she said, following him. Her feet crunched in the gravel as she rounded the car and faced him. "Are you okay?"

"You don't feel that?" he asked, gesturing about his head. "This place. What's the opposite of spooky?" He put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the misty fields. He took in a deep breath, let it out. The early morning chill was bracing. His shoulders relaxed.

Missy glanced up at the ominous forest and the ominous fields and the ominous hill and the ominous dark road ahead. "…not here?"

"It feels-"

"You're drunk, Doctor."

"No I'm not actually. It feels, it feels," the Doctor took her hand without looking at her, ran his thumb across her knuckles. "Cherished. Can you not feel it? I've not felt something like this in London. Or - anywhere."

His hands were warm. Missy closed her eyes, opened her mind, took a deep breath of the cold air. The Doctor's boots moved across the stones.

"You know I don't do the mental stuff. I haven't had the practise with anyone else."

"The psychic waves are radiating off this place. Someone - really loves it."

"I don't feel it," Missy said. "I don't-"

She was interrupted by the Doctor cupping her face and clumsily pressing his mouth against her own. She should have pushed him away, but instead let him move them over to the car and press her against it. She sighed against his lips, wound her arms about his waist. She delved one of her hands into his hair and pulled him closer. After a few moments, the Doctor pulled back, rested their foreheads together.

"Cherished," he said finally. He darted forward, kissed her again, ran his thumbs along her cheekbones. "It's cherished."

Missy looked across at him softly, feeling her hearts pound in her chest. Still. "I don't feel it, Doctor." She counted to four, watched his eyes widen.

The Doctor stepped back, ran his hands down his front. Swallowed. "Sorry," he said, voice hoarse. "I don't know. I don't know what came over me."

"That hasn't happened for a while," said Missy, taking a deep breath. "It's okay. You were always better at the psychic stuff. On Gallifrey."

"Gallifrey," the Doctor said in a sudden panic, and they both looked up at the sky. The Time Lords had satellites - the Archangel Network - that scoped out the Earth's surface - occasionally they'd zero in on the Doctor. He checked his watch. "I think. I think it's fine."

"We're nearly there, I recognise the ominous. Hill." Missy gestured. "Get in the car, Thete, come on now."

The Doctor grinned awkwardly, ducked his head.

"Nuns, here we come," said Missy.

They got back in the car. Missy shot a glance at the Doctor, who sat staring straight at the road. She pressed her thumb against her lips for a second.

"You're okay, Doctor. I know you don't do a lot of that this time around. I honestly thought that was just by choice," said Missy. "I thought. You don't like that sort of thing, anymore."

"Hm," said the Doctor. They sat in awkward silence for a moment. "Yeah. I didn't - shall we? Nuns. Can we just save the world?"

Missy shook herself. "Right," she said. "Right."

She turned on the radio. Queen was playing. The Doctor smiled to himself.

They drove up the hill, through the spooky forest and the spooky trees. They rolled into the gravelled forecourt of an imposing manor, which was doing double duty as a carpark.

"Do nuns normally drive BMWs?" the Doctor wondered aloud. "I know more about monks."

"Nah, in my day they sort of packed four to a Morris Traveller," said Missy. "Hey, wanna see if they have any CDs that aren't Queen in them?"

The Doctor gave her a look. "Can we find the TykeBomb first?" he asked.

"I'm not hearing no."

Missy pulled into a disabled spot, and the pair got out of the car. Thirty seconds later, they were shot. With incredible accuracy.


	4. THURSDAY. MORE OR LESS.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday, only six? Eight? Twelve? Months after Wednesday!
> 
> Nuns, am I right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a bit of inspiration.

Sister Mary Davrossa, of the Chattering Order of Kaled, before she'd been Sister Mary Davrossa, hadn't really gotten up to much. She'd dropped out of school before finishing her A-Levels and never really excelled. She had secretly wanted adventure but - she also needed security. And she wouldn't get it gallivanting around the world or jetsetting or studying.

She'd gotten the bronze in gymnastics when she was eight.

After the switching of the babies, the Order of Kaled had broken up and gone their separate ways, duties fulfilled. Sister Mary Davrossa, the giggly ditzy nun, feeling at home in the sleepy convent in the sleepy town, had volunteered to stay in case they were needed again. Someone had to keep up the house and keep on top of the workman, in whatever fashion was required. The Master had had very specific ideas about what he wanted out of Dalek-worshipping nuns when he'd created them.

The world was going to end in eleven years anyway - might as well break some vows.

As she dealt with overweight men in coveralls however, Mary Davrossa had found, under all those layers of silliness, that she could actually be quite. Well. Sensical, sensible and filled with sensibility. This came to the fore the Wednesday she fired a builder on the spot for being loudly and proudly prejudiced. She'd bought a computer, done some reading and three Tuesdays later, the Tadfield Manor Conference and Training Centre had opened to great success.

Mary Davrossa had realised management training (something she'd also sat through during her more traditional nunning days) needed to be jazzed up to fit with the needs of modern businesses. She was more than happy to provide.

 

 

*** * ***

 

**BY THIS POINT, THURSDAY MORNING, BUT WEDNESDAY NIGHT.**

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor fell backwards against the Bentley, clutching his hand over his left heart. Missy stumbled forwards into the gravel, trying to hold in whatever was left of her guts. Delaying the inevitable, but old habits died hard. Time Lords could take weeks to die properly. They tended to linger. 

"Not again," said the Doctor, coughing.

This was the last thing they needed - he was contracted to report to the Time Lords whenever he regenerated. It would require all sorts of explanations, probably a new wardrobe and a few days of him running around acting embarrassingly silly or falling asleep everywhere. Wasting time. Time they just didn't _have_.

Cool dampness suffused his shirt. His head lolled to one side.

"Missy. Are you. Missy," he gasped, and heard the gravel shifting as she tried to move, her choking breathing. "Hey, hey, stay with me. How many do you have left?"

A groan of pain was his only answer, and a horrible thought struck him.

"Missy, can you regenerate?"

He looked down at his hand. He looked harder in disbelief, squinted.

His blood was yellow. He tasted a finger. He looked over at Missy, as she sprawled dramatically.

Missy groaned. "They got me right in the liver, the bastards. At least lasers are - fast." She moaned again. "I hope I'm a woman next time."

"Do you normally bleed blue?" the Doctor asked.

Missy's eyes shot open and she performed a similar self-examination to the Doctor.

"Who the fuck shoots paintballs?" she asked, trying to stand but doubling over with a groan. "What are they playing at? Silly buggers?"

 

 

*** * ***

 

Rose Tyler, the manager formerly known as Sister Mary Davrossa, was a true innovator in the field of management training. If she'd been born in the late 23rd Century, she wouldn't have been a nun, but she would have been deified.

 

*** * ***

 

Nigel Tompkins from Accounting lay down his rifle, stayed still in his nest of leaves. He watched the grey-haired man help the woman in purple up, and they both produced pocket handkerchiefs, wiped the worst of the paint off.

"Down there there's company law," he whispered, wishing he had a cigarette. He'd never smoked in his life. "But up here there's me."

He tracked the two people's progression into the manor until they'd entered the doors and went out of sight. Then he loaded up his ammo and moved onwards. Forward Planning's bivoucac by the ornamental fountain wouldn't last long under Accounting's assault.

 

 

*** * ***

 

"Does it look familiar?" the Doctor asked, holding the door open for Missy.

She shook her head and he trailed after her down the dimly-lit corridor, brushing past people wearing camouflage outfits and holding paintball guns. There was a rack of gunsby one of the doors. Missy picked one up and sighted along the stubby barrel.

"Nice. What do you think?" she said, and saw the Doctor's face. "Sorry."

"Through here?"

"Hm."

They found themselves in a better-lit tea room, with two battered tables around which sat a dozen or so middle-management types all in paint-splattered camo. They all stopped chatting and gave the Time Lords an odd look. The Doctor found his battered psychic paper.

"Health Inspectors," he said, and everyone relaxed. "Just looking for the owner of this establishment."

One of the women pointed up the staircase and Missy and the Doctor trooped onwards. Missy was halfway down the corridor when the Doctor stopped her.

"It's this one," he said, pointing at the ROSE TYLER, OWNER AND OPERATOR sign on the first door he'd come across.

"If you say so," said Missy, and the Doctor knocked.

"Yeah?" called the woman inside.

Missy had a good memory for faces and was inside the office in seconds, hypnotising the nun where she sat at her desk. 

"It's her," she said. "Shut the door."

The Doctor shut it. "Do you have to be so forceful?" he asked. "We could just ask her."

Sister Mary settled back in her chair, a blank but amiable expression on her face. Missy took the seat opposite her.

"Yeah, wake her up and ask her what family she stole a baby from and replaced it with a Dalek bomb," Missy smiled wickedly. "I'll let you ask."

The Doctor sighed, covered his mouth with his fist. "Right. Sorry. Do your thing. Nicely."

"Good," Missy checked her watch. "Morning, little miss nun knickers. Now. A couple of questions. Eleven years ago. Do you recall an incident involving baby-switching?"

The woman frowned, as if she didn't want to remember. "Yes," she said slowly. "The little babies with the big brown eyes."

"Is there any way the switch could have gone wrong?"

"I don't think so," she said. "The family was very nice. Very loving. No one suspected a thing."

And then, the nun winked.

"What is that?" the Doctor asked.

"Winking," said Missy. "It's usually a component of flirting, but you wouldn't know that if it hit you in the face. I'm a bit old for you, dear-"

The Doctor hmphed.

"You don't think there was an issue with the swap?" Missy said.

"Ask her if there's some records," said the Doctor. "Humans are all about records. The other families in the hospital giving birth at the time."

"Yeah, what he said," said Missy. "Where are the records?"

"Destroyed."

"How?"

"There was a fire," said the nun dreamily. "It was awful."

"This is useless," said the Doctor. "So were all the records destroyed?"

"The fire came from the sky," said the nun.

"Sure it did," said Missy, then, "Fuck, Hastur."

"Who?" the nun asked, standing, unbuttoning her collar.

"No, not you," said Missy. She turned to face the Doctor. "Dalek Hastur. He's the Earth garrison commander. He probably used the warship. Probably thought it was best to destroy the evidence. The moron."

"Daleks used a ship and destroyed a hospital. What ship?" the Doctor asked, and Missy bit her lip. "Never mind. So the records are gone?"

"Big brown eyes," said the nun dreamily.

"Useless," spat Missy. "Right, we're going. Come on."

"At least un-hypnotize her."

"It wears off."

"That takes days," said the Doctor, and pointed. "Missy. Release her."

Missy rolled her eyes, snapped her fingers. The woman's eyes rolled back into her head and she fell back in her chair, snoring.

"What a waste of time," she said, on their way out of the manor. "Useless humans, useless nuns."

"Now, on the drive back you're going to talk to me about this Dalek ship," the Doctor said. "How could you not tell me-"

"Am I allowed to have no secr-"

There was a faint crack, and the Doctor grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved them both up against the manor's outer wall. Paint splattered against the door where their heads had been.

"Thank God they haven't got real guns," said the Doctor, inches from Missy's face again for the second time in as many hours. She swallowed. The Doctor continued, letting go of her. "I hope your car's okay. You get so upset over that thing having even a tiny scratch."

 

*** * ***

 

They were still driving. It had been the longest Wednesday night for both of them in a while.

 

The Doctor turned down 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' "I've been thinking."

"Always a bad sign."

"What if we just can't find the kid."

"How so? Ugh." Missy braked for a group of half-drunk teens that were crossing the road.

"Well, they designed it so it would fly under the Time Lords' radar. We're Time Lords."

"We're not. Really Time Lords Doctor. Well I'm a Time Lady, now, but we're not really. We haven't done any actual Lording or Ladying for millennia."

"But you know what I mean," said the Doctor. "What if that same power that will destroy the world simultaneously protects the kid from us? It's a failsafe you'd be a fool to not include."

Missy drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "You may have a point there. So how do we find it then?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Maybe we need a human to do it?"

"What, send out Kate Stewart and her Blue Berets?"

"No, no, I mean. Well. I have kind of a network of agents. I told you, I have people. You don't have people. You do have-"

"You have people, la-di-dah, fancy that."

" _You_ have a hidden Dalek warship, which we still need to talk about."

Missy sped up, praying for the car ride to end. "We don't have anything to talk about in regards to that."

The Doctor breathed out. "I'll get it out of you somehow. Somehow."

"Yeah, yeah. You're not nearly as good in bed as you think you are, Doctor."

Silence reigned in the car for a good few minutes. Even the lingering spirit of Freddy Mercury felt embarrassed.

"Humans are good at finding humans," the Doctor said finally. "They've been doing that for thousands of years. It's what they do. Have you seen how they react when even a stranger gets lost?"

"Yeah, I see where you're coming from. You've got those people, you have."

"Yes. I could contact them. You need people."

Missy sped up more, taking care to exceed the speed limit. "You know I don't have people. I don't _need_ people."

"An hour ago I would have said the Daleks didn't have a warship on Earth," the Doctor looked at his hands. "You had all those nuns."

"No idea where they've gone. Offworld, to convert Cybermen or something. Deepest Africa, convert them to Dalekness."

"Any other wonderful things the Daleks have that I should know about?" asked the Doctor. "More antichrists? A pet Time Lord? Dalek-Time-Lord-hybrid-monster?"

"Don't be fucking stupid," said Missy. "You don't have to get all pissy about this."

"I'm not angry at you, not really," said the Doctor. "I'm angry at myself. Actually, I am angry your agents somehow _misplaced a child_. I'm angry at myself. How did you get that warship past our systems? How could you hide that from me?"

Silence in the car. Freddy Mercury was singing about Moey and Chandon, and like Missy, willing the car ride to end.

"You're angry at yourself," Missy prompted.

"I sometimes forget my idea of you doesn't match up with how you actually behave."

"At a guess, I'd say you meant, how you wish I'd behave," said Missy, steering round a pothole. "I don't have people. I just have you. And _fucking_ _Queen_ , did you seriously do this to my car? How? It drives me insane!"

The Doctor looked out the window, face poker-straight. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You've always preferred pop music. It all sounds the same to me. Do you have any classical?"

Missy shot him a look. He started rummaging through the glovebox, brought out a CD and put it into the player. "Ah, Bach. Excellent. He was a great guy, wasn't he?"

A heavy bass beat began to thump through the Bentley.

"What one is this?"

"Johann Sebastian Bach's Mass in B Minor. Also titled, Another One Bites the Dust," said Missy, rolling her eyes. "Try and get some sleep. I can feel your headache from here."

They continued through the night, Bach's heavy bass beat thudding, vocals by F. Mercury.

 

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor woke up as they reached the outskirts of London, and the pair sat in silence.

"We're here," said Missy, pulling up in front of the shop. "Should I come in?"

The Doctor reached into the backseat and grabbed his coat, along with something else. He held up a small brown book.

"Is this yours?"

"You know I can't read modern English," said Missy, an unfortunate side-effect of hopping between planets and times on a rapid basis without a TARDIS. "That looks ancient."

The Doctor began to look through the pages, tiny alarm bells going off in the back of his mind.

"Probably that odd woman's," said Missy. "Shame we didn't get her address. Crying shame."

"Sarcasm has never been a good look on you," the Doctor said. He reached the title-page. The alarm bells went full Three-Mile-Island.

"Send it via the post. Mad girl with shitty bike and no road sense, Lower Tadfield. Care of, the Time Lords." She shifted in her seat to face him. "Hey, can you put in a claim for dry-cleaning? I like this jacket."

The Doctor kept reading, eyes growing wide.

"You okay?" Missy asked. "Got flashes of cherishment again, or something?" She touched the back of his neck lightly, traced her fingers up into his hair. "Doctor?"

He looked up at her, dragging his gaze from the book. "Hm?"

"Shall I come in?"

"No, it's fine. Oh. _Oh_. Do you - do you want breakfast? I don't know if I've got anything in."

"Right," said Missy, withdrawing her hand. "No. No thanks."

The Doctor slung his coat over his shoulder, tucked the book into his pocket carefully and got out of the car. As he walked past the driver's side, Missy stuck her head out the window, tried to snag his sleeve and failed. She called his name, and the Doctor turned.

"Keep in touch, will you?" she called. "If you need anything."

"Yes," said the Doctor over his shoulder, fumbling for his keys. "Will do. Well said," he dropped them on the pavement, picked them up again. "See you, Kosch. Thanks for driving." He paused, then spoke again with venom. "Feel free to tell me about that warship, any time. Whenever you're ready."

"Fine," mumbled Missy, as she drove away, feeling roundly alone and profoundly rejected. She went in search of pancakes.

 

 

*** * ***

 

Torchlight flickered in the lanes of Tadfield.

The problem with looking for brown books in brown leaves and brown water in brown ditches, at the bottom of which was brown dirt is quite obvious. The greyish light of dawn wasn't helping.

It wasn't there. Martha had tried everything in her search for the Book. She'd methodically quartered the area, strode up and down the road in case one of those weird old people had put the Book on the roof of their weird old car and it had flown off. She'd poked the bracken and blackberries on the roadside, and had the scratches to prove it. There was the nonchalant sidling up and looking at it from the corner of her eye.

Eventually, the romantic nerve in her body insisted she try dramatically flopping down and letting her gaze fall on a random patch of ground, which in all decent narratives, would mean she'd find the book.

"Fuck," said Martha, when this didn't work, startling a nearby jogger.

Which meant the Book was probably in the back of a car belonging to a Victoriana-obsessed old couple.

She could feel generations of Williams, Ponds, Songs, Tangs and McSweeneys laughing at her.

And even if they did find the Book, they probably wouldn't know what it was and wouldn't know how to return it.

 

The only hope she had was that they didn't know what they'd gotten. She couldn't believe she'd lost it.

 

 

*** * ***

 

The Doctor knew what he'd gotten. He just couldn't believe it.

Like all Soho merchants, the Doctor had a specialist backroom where he kept things for customers with more specialised tastes. Unlike the rest of Soho, however, his back room was full of his collection of bad prophecy books. He also had an zodiac section. He was a Capricorn, more or less. Missy was a Scorpio. The amount of calculations that had taken to figure out was impressive. He still had the notebook somewhere.

His books of prophecy were first editions, mostly signed and mostly in wonderful condition. He'd got Nostradamus and Richard Nixon (not that one) and Martha the Gypsy. Mother Shipton and he had been doing shots when he'd picked up her novel, and there was a tequila stain on the cover. In a climate-controlled case in the corner there was a scroll by St John of Patmos, one of the favourite self-declared prophets he'd met; he'd been quite fond of odd mushrooms.

What the Doctor did not have was The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of River Song. He'd never seen a copy before, had known River was writing something, but assumed she'd died before finishing it.

Obviously he'd been wrong. River, after all these years, had come through.

His hands shook as he laid the book on a special bench and found a pair of cotton gloves. Reverently, he took a deep breath and opened the book. The title said:

 

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of River Song.

 

In slightly smaller type below it:

 

_Being a Certain and Precise History from the Present Day Unto the Endings of this World. More complete than Ever Before Published._

 

In a different type altogether.

 

_ C _ ONCERNIN _G_ _ T _ H _E_ _ S _ TRANG _E_ _ T _ IME _S_ _ A _ HEAD _E_ _. _

 

And in final, larger type.

 

**"Eh, Close Enough" - The Sainted Physician.**

 

The Doctor blinked. Blinked again, hard. He turned to the next page. The prophecies were numbered. There were over 4000 of them.

"No," he said suddenly, and went and stood outside for a few minutes.

He came back in, got a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He took a few deep breaths.

"Steady on," he told himself.

He read a prophecy at random.

He went and got a notebook.

"Okay," he whispered.

The Doctor poured himself a drink and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and feedback are always appreciated.


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